Tacet I: Night
by Marguerite1
Summary: Post-ep for "Posse Comitatus," #1 in a series of 4


TACET I: NIGHT  
  
Classification: Post-ep for "Posse Comitatus." CJ POV.   
Summary: " Tomorrow she will belong to the cameras, to a nation that will think   
it's a shame someone died and then go back to their breakfasts."  
  
Tacet: Musical term meaning to remain silent, usually for an entire movement of  
a longer work.  
  
***   
Tacet I: Night   
***  
  
Some forty blocks from where she sits, a man's body is growing cold. Lips that  
had brushed hers so tantalizingly, so fleetingly, are hardening and turning  
gray-blue like the wings of the pigeons that gather at her feet. They flock to  
her in hopes of a handout. Since she has nothing to offer them but salt water  
and carbon dioxide they scurry away on their dusty pink toes.  
  
There's only this one chance to let it out before someone finds her and turns  
her back into the Press Secretary she's not sure she ever wanted to be, the one  
who can spout facts without injecting any of herself into them, the one who can  
keep a poker face when the world's going to hell around her. It won't be long  
before someone recognizes her or someone is sent to retrieve her. By the time  
the police take the pictures - does she have a picture of him, other than what's  
in her mind? - and zip him into a plastic bag, she'll be back at the theatre,  
back in the motorcade. Back.  
  
You have to go back.  
  
That comes from Ron Butterfield. She doesn't look at him, doesn't want to see  
the expression on his face. For him the loss is professional - guys in the  
Service don't go down in a convenience store robbery. He is as unprepared as  
she. Maybe it's personal for him, too. Maybe he liked Simon's snarky wit, or  
maybe the guys who were at Rosslyn that night were like a fraternity. Maybe he's  
going to mourn Simon in his own way, or maybe he wants to mourn with her.  
  
CJ shakes her head, doesn't rise from the bench. There may still be a few tears  
left, and she will not allow anyone in their party to see them. Tomorrow she  
will belong to the cameras, to a nation that will think it's a shame someone  
died and then go back to their breakfasts. She will always belong to the  
President and Leo and all of them. But tonight she belongs only to herself and  
her grief.  
  
Ron retreats into the crowd. Tactful. Quiet.  
  
The neon lights are bright on Broadway, and they are changing the colors of her  
gown. Black, then blue. Blue, then silver, then turning red and orange and  
purple. Simon had seen her trying on the gown, had liked what he'd seen. She  
could tell from the way his eyes widened and he started breathing through his  
mouth.  
  
Was his mouth frozen in a cry that he'd never finished? Were his eyes still  
open, or had some brotherly hand reached down to slide the lids together? Where  
was the gun she'd fired at the range, the one that had heated up her slim hands  
and sent her reeling backwards, and why hadn't it saved him?  
  
She's not alone on the bench anymore. At first she thinks it's Carol or  
Margaret, sent by Butterfield to bring her back into the fold, but the three  
women had shared a bottle of jasmine-scented cologne in the ladies' room of the  
theatre. This isn't jasmine. It's eau de despair.  
  
CJ turns her head just enough to see the leathery woman on her left. She wears  
torn jeans that are two sizes too large, mismatched shoes, and a thin, dirty  
t-shirt that says she loves New York. CJ's age, or younger, or older, impossible  
to calculate. She'd have to be examined from the inside, like counting the rings  
of a tree. The only thing CJ knows is that she's cold.  
  
Simon's cold by now, isn't he? The body's temperature drops quickly after death.  
Soft hands turn rigid. Rigor mortis. Stiff and cold, but at least he doesn't  
feel anything anymore. God. Simon. Not like this living, breathing woman, whose  
thin frame lacks CJ's tone and is just that, thin, too thin to support the unfed  
organs within. They gaze at one another for uncounted minutes. The woman  
obviously needs money, but CJ carries none with her when she's in the motorcade.  
  
Tonight she'd come with a shawl and Simon. The shawl had been useless against  
the wet night so she'd borrowed Margaret's leather jacket to sneak out for some  
air before the play, once upon a time when Simon was a possibility and she'd  
finally, finally, been able to kiss him.  
  
The woman by her side continues to stare at her. CJ tells her she's sorry by  
holding out her empty hands, then she shrugs out of the wrap and puts it softly  
around the woman's shoulders. Hopes it'll do more good where it is.  
  
Tonight she'd come with a shawl and Simon, and it's her destiny to leave both  
behind.  
  
There's something lucid in the shining blue eyes that says thank you, that  
understands CJ has given all she has, then the woman scurries away just as the  
pigeons had done. She turns once, cocks her head as if trying to comprehend the  
drying tears on CJ's face, then melts into the throng.  
  
She won't cry in front of them, especially not Toby, who sidles up behind her  
and puts his hands on her shoulders. He doesn't say anything except that he'd  
have come even if Ron hadn't sent him.  
  
Her body responds by sitting up a little straighter and she pushes her shoulders  
back. Toby's warm, dry hands remain in place against her chilly skin. He doesn't  
say he's sorry, just squeezes a little tighter against the rigid muscles, runs  
his thumbs in circles to loosen them a little. CJ breathes as deeply as her  
aching lungs will allow, takes in the spring air that she will forever associate  
with sorrow.  
  
Can we get rid of spring? she asks Toby.  
  
She never wants to live through another one. Rosslyn, a drunk driver, and  
tonight some punks have rendered the season unbearable. Josh had been along for  
the ride and the President had spoken brilliantly. Mrs. Landingham had bought a  
shiny new car. Simon had craved a piece of candy. They'd found it by his side,  
Ron had said, and roses were scattered around him, red and white, blood and  
purity, and now they were all painted red by his blood.  
  
There's a lump in her throat that she can't swallow down. Toby's hands move to  
the back of her neck, massaging the base of her skull, but that makes it worse.  
It loosens the dam when she can't afford to let one drop spill. Not while he's  
watching her. CJ pulls away, leaning over with her face in her hands,  
controlling each breath.  
  
He gets it, just as he has always done, but before he walks away he drapes his  
tuxedo jacket over her. She can hear his dress shoes shuffling a few steps away.  
She can also hear him unwrap a piece of gum - he's trying to give up cigars.  
He's taken a few steps away but he'll be there when she's done.  
  
It's sweet agony to be, for just this brief time, an Ordinary Woman instead of  
Claudia Jean Cregg, Press Secretary. Simon, Simon, I'm so sorry, she keens in  
her own head as she rocks back and forth with her arms crossed over her belly.  
Tears stain her gown, the one she'd worn in defiance of her stalker and Simon.  
Her stalker is alive, protected from harm, but Simon is gone forever. It's not  
right, it's not right, it's not right.  
  
Her stalker is in a warm prison cell, with three meals a day and free legal  
representation, but Simon is on a metal slab somewhere, naked and helpless. And  
cold. Simon's so cold.  
  
That ends it for her, freezes the blood and tears and lets her stand up even  
though her ankles wobble. She looks around for Toby, indicating with a nod of  
her head that she's ready for him. He comes back to her, his hands in his  
pockets, looking at her with such compassion that her knees and her resolve  
weaken and she has to sit down again. She lets him sit beside her, good, solid  
Toby who's not going to ever, ever leave her.  
  
Toby doesn't always speak in words, so tonight he reminds her with gentle  
strokes of her windblown hair that it won't always feel like this. She clutches  
his jacket around her and tries to steel her body so it won't collapse when Leo  
cups her cheek or the President says something kind, so that her tears won't  
boil over as Sam puts his arms around her and tells her, callow, kind boy that  
he is, that it's going to be all right.  
  
Toby's hand moves to her shoulder, squeezes with warm gentleness. They have to  
go in a minute but he'll be at her side, won't leave her alone with her grief  
and her desperation. Won't let the others practice their clumsy sympathy on her,  
won't let the motorcade pass the place where Simon died.  
  
Sirens and lights will herald their departure. They will herald Simon's  
departure, too, some forty blocks from where she sits.  
  
***   
END   
***  
  
Thanks, Ria, for the commentary and the late-night chats. :)  
  
Feedback is welcome at marguerite@swbell.net .  
Back to West Wing .  
  
  
  
  
  



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